


Separation (splits the foundation)

by sammyspreadyourwings



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Brian May's 1974 Hepatitis Diagnosis, Crying, Dork Lovers Server Challenge (Queen Band), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Insecurity, Love, Multi, Polyamory, References to Depression, Separation Anxiety, Separations, Song Lyrics, Song writing, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 01:53:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20827439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyspreadyourwings/pseuds/sammyspreadyourwings
Summary: During Brian's long stay in the hospital, he's only allowed visitors that are his blood family. Roger, Freddie, and John take it about as well as Brian does.





	Separation (splits the foundation)

**Author's Note:**

> @Havvy for hasing this out with me, hopefully you like it!  
also, hah! Still made the server challenge deadline, I'm going to sleep now, because I've spent like. 16 hours this weekend sewing.  
This is a little more realistic take on the hospital aspect, with more of a focus on emotion.  
So enjoy!

Roger is about to scream. He is tearing up every single piece of paper that he can find in this room and then tearing up his shredding. The doctor had been by to tell him that there was no need for him to be so upset, that this was standard protocol. He had barely been able to keep his temper in check. It’s not fair to yell at the doctors when they were just doing their jobs.

It’s been three fucking days.

He wishes that they would make an exception. The paper scatters to the floor as he presses his fist to his eyes trying to force the image from his brain. Brian’s lack of energy and weakness should have been warning signs. Every time he closes his eyes he sees Brian taking a step off the stage, just out of sight from the crowd and collapsing.

It says a lot that he was relieved Brian had just handed the Red Special off to their guitar tech.

He remembers rushing over to him. Turning him over and noting the tiny gash on his head from falling, but then seeing the yellowing around his eyes and fingertips. Roger hadn’t been the best student, but he knows turning yellow is a bad fucking thing.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he were allowed to be with John or Freddie. The doctors had kept them separate because one may be infected and the others not. Roger huffs if they knew anything at all if they were going to be infected it would be all of them. He can’t think of a reason why Brian would be the only one to get it.

Roger doesn’t look for an explanation. Instead, he starts meticulously picking up each piece of paper before discarding them into the bin. There’s nothing left to tear on them. Instead, he starts unraveling the blanket with a loose threat that he found.

The doctors won’t even tell him anything about Brian, just that he is alive. Which is something, but nothing about how he is doing now? Roger is certain that he’ll still be too feverish to consent to anything and still yellow. Maybe he isn’t even awake, slipping into a coma that he is never going to wake up from. It could be that. He hasn’t gotten any news on Brian in the past two hours.

Roger barely makes it to the bin to get sick. The wretching calls in one of the heavily suited nurses. He waves her off but she still forces him back to bed to check his vitals.

“I’m not fucking sick,” he grumbles.

“The bloodwork will be back soon, Mr. Taylor.”

“Will I be able to see Brian then?” Roger bats his eyes.

He knows he is not the heartthrob he usually is, but hopefully. The nurse gives him an unimpressed look before sighing.

“No, Mr. Taylor. Mr. May is currently in intensive care, which is for _blood _family only, and then he will likely be moved to isolation for the rest of his recovery, which means a strict visitor list, and again, _only blood family.”_

Roger scowls. Brian’s “blood” family currently wants nothing to do with him. He knows they’ll be here because Brian is their only child and while he doesn’t want to think ill of anyone he is afraid that they aren’t going to give the comfort that Brian needs. Like how when Brian had trouble sleeping the best way to get him to bed is Freddie singing or John’s special tea or Roger laying on him until he gives in and sleeps.

Ruth and Harold can’t do that. They probably won’t even touch him with bare hands (it’s for their safety, a small part of him say).

“Now please tell me if there’s anything the matter – with you _physically_, Mr. Taylor.”

“When the bloodwork comes back clean, then we’ll be able to leave.”

“Yes, sir.”

Roger pulls harder at the loose thread as soon as the nurse leaves.

Several hours later, Doctor Edwards, enters the room, “good news, Mr. Taylor, everything is normal. Congratulations.”

Roger jumps up from the bed, grabbing his bag, “fantastic, where’s the exit?”

He hasn’t seen any of his boyfriends, one of them is _actively dying, _in three days. While his question is abrupt Roger thinks he is entitled to a little rudeness. Then he reconsiders.

“Sorry,” he says, “er, but do you mind telling me how Brian is doing?”

The face the doctor makes drops Roger’s heart to the ground.

“I’m sorry, Mr. May is not responding to treatments as we would like, and unfortunately a wound on his arm has become badly infected.”

Roger presses against the wall. His lungs feel like they’re trying to shove out of his chest. He swallows and it gets stuck in his throat, he keeps swallowing and eventually he is able to stop feeling like he is going to pass out.

“What – what does that mean?”

Apparently, it had only been thirty seconds and not an eternity.

The doctor shakes his head. Roger needs to know what this means, now that it's in the open.

“There is a chance that Mr. May will respond to treatment.”

“How much of a chance?”

Doctor Edwards grimaces, “a chance is all you should hold on to.”

The urge to scream is back. Roger shuts his brain off, he will… he’ll deal with the implications later.

“Right, thank you. Where’s the exit?”

“Your friends have also been cleared, they should be in the lobby.”

Roger nods and walks out of the hospital room. Down the hallway is where the ICU is. He could sneak down there and get a peek of Brian. Then he shakes his head, would he really want his last memory of Brian for him to be in a hospital bed. It’s bad enough, that the last thing Roger has seen of him is his fall.

He watches it play out in his mind again. Roger lashes out. His hand hits the wall. The pain grounds him and he hurries towards the lobby. At least he can see Freddie and John. There’s that. He can get through everything else as long as he has that.

They’re standing in the lobby. Freddie looks surprisingly well put together, save for the tension in his hands and the way he crosses his arms over his chest. He is also leaning on one leg more than the other. John, on the other hand, is fidgeting. His hands picking at his sleeves for a moment before drifting to pull on his hair before he puts them in his pocket and then they’re back to picking at his sleeves.

Roger doesn’t know how he made it to them. His brain is barely navigating his feel and it’s like his heart was left in that hospital room. He thought that seeing his other lovers would make him happy. It just reminds him of what he has lost. What is currently gone _wait no_ – of who isn’t with them – Brian isn’t dead! He bites his tongue and tries to get that phrase lodged in his head.

Brian is alive. Brian is alive.

Freddie pulls him into a hug and Roger has to keep himself from losing it. He hugs John too. The movements feel mechanical.

“Roger?” Freddie whispers.

“Did you hear anything?” John demands.

What does he even tell them? Roger doesn’t know how to sort the information into something that makes sense. On a surface level it does, but he doesn’t understand it.

“Brian isn’t responding to treatments as they would like.”

They stare at him blankly. He runs hands over his face. Roger knows they know what he means except he can’t help but want to maybe share some of this pain. Then he could think better.

“He isn’t getting better. Hell, he could be getting worse.”

John’s jaw snaps. Roger worries about his teeth for a moment before Freddie lightly taps him on the cheek. It’s Freddie’s way of saying that they’d be fighting right now if they weren’t together.

“Don’t say that. Brimi will be fine.”

Roger digs his tongue into the back of his teeth. How can Freddie be so positive about this? Even if Brian did survive, what’s to say that they won’t live with this over their head their entire life. Waiting for Brian to get sick again. This isn’t the flu.

“Let’s. Let’s go back to the flat,” John whispers.

Right. The flat. Not home. They don’t have a home right now.

What the hell did he even do before he met Brian? They’ve only known each other for five years, why does Roger not know what to do. He walks towards the car (that the label so graciously lent them) and his hand reaches out automatically to grab Brian’s. He knows Brian isn’t with him. Why is he? Roger shakes his head. One foot in front of the other.

John grabs his hand instead. The bassist’s steady heads are shaking and sweating. Freddie walks with a sure grace. Roger doesn’t even know how he is walking. It’s automatic.

He doesn’t remember the car ride or walking up the steps. Roger does remember looking around the living room. It’s clean, Brian made them straighten it before they went on tour. Their luggage is in the middle of the living room. The guitars are leaning against the wall and Roger’s drum stick case is in the middle of the coffee table.

Roger watches John move to the guitars, setting his bass down in its stand. His hands tremble at opening up the Red Special. It doesn’t feel right, Brian had never given his explicit permission for them to touch her, but he has let them hold her. Can he really handle seeing Brian’s prized possession become covered in dust while she waits to get played again?

“Leave her in the case,” Freddie says.

Freddie is in the kitchen attempting to boil tea, but he is just letting the kettle run over with water and hasn’t even tried to start the stove. Roger thinks he should probably tell him to stop that.

“Fred, I don’t think any of us are in the mood for tea,” John says softly.

Looks like John is forcing himself to talk. Freddie turns off the faucet but leaves the full kettle in the sink. Roger looks between them. He should say something, agree with John or ask for tea. He doesn’t know.

“We should all go to bed.”

Roger nods, happy to have something to do. They quietly all get changed for bed. He decides last minute that he wants to shower. John smiles at him encouragingly. Pajamas in hand, Roger goes to the bathroom. The pipes are a little wobbly with disuse but soon the bathroom is feeling up with steam from the hot water.

The water burns as he steps in it, but he doesn’t mind it so much. Every feeling has faded to background noise. He stands under the spray, letting it run down his head and body before his knees don’t feel like they should stand. Roger lowers himself to the tub before putting the stopper in. Slowly warm water wraps around him.

He still can’t feel it, but he knows it’s nice to get the hospital grim off of him.

Roger rubs at his face and is surprised to find that he is crying. He rubs at his face and continues to do so until he physically hurts him to touch his eyes. The tub is about to run over so he pulls out the stopper and turns off the shower, the water has run cold.

He towels off and slips his pajamas on. Roger looks like he is supposed to. The redness of his face being able to be explained by the hot water. Stepping out of the bathroom forces him to enter a silent house. It’s barely late afternoon, usually, someone is singing or playing or the TV is on. There is the usual creaking of the flat but no sounds of life.

Roger walks to the bedroom. John is sprawled on his back, his eyes reddened, and he can’t explain that away with water. Freddie is wrapped tightly in the blankets. There’s space for two people. He doesn’t want to think about the space being left if he were to climb into that bed. Instead, he stumbles back out of their bedroom and into their guest bedroom.

It used to be his and Brian’s.

He drops down on the single mattress and tries to forget a time when it was two people in the bed. They always fought over how many blankets to put on the bed. Brian liked to have a lot because he lost body heat quickly. Roger always would suffer by sweating.

Brian was cute completely bundled up like he did.

He tosses and turns and steals Brian’s side before he rolls back over to his. His body feels like he has run a marathon, but his mind still feels like it’s running that marathon. Freddie and John aren’t in bed with him. He hasn’t had this much space to himself in years.

How did he like it before? How did past him not have an inkling to how comfortable it was to rest your head on someone’s chest and to have someone pressed tightly to his back. To not worry about what he should do with his hands because someone was always holding it.

Why can’t he just sleep with Freddie and John? Maybe he could, but he would be too aware of who isn’t with them.

Brian, who is alone in a hospital, delirious with fever and his liver swelling.

Roger bites down on his hand and tries to not let the sobs get too loud.

* * *

Brian stares up at the ceiling. There are fourteen ceiling tiles. There are fifteen rooms on this floor. Eight floors altogether. Which means that there are 1,680 patient room ceiling tiles.

He wishes he knew how long the hallways were. If these are standard size ceiling tiles, and since they’re square, he knows that they are 595mm by 595mm. Which means if he had the length of an average hallway he could estimate how many hallways there are on a floor and get to the size of the building.

Brian keeps forgetting to ask his nurse about how long the hallway is.

Maybe he can estimate how many ceiling tiles it would take to get to the moon.

His arm twinges and he resists the urge to rub it. It’ll only make the pain worse. Brian swallows as he remembers the doctor’s words from earlier. He might not have to worry about the pain in his arm because he might lose it.

Hopefully, the others know. Can figure out that they should hide the Red Special from him. He can’t destroy her, but he can’t see her. Brian rolls over slightly, gritting his teeth to the pain. The fever is crawling down his neck making his thoughts heavy.

His stomach twists and he gags.

The orderly barely makes it in time for him to sick into a bowl. It’s nothing but bile and the acid makes his eyes swim. He spits up for a few more minutes before the orderly deems him finished and pushes him back to the head.

Brian wants to lean into the touch, it’s been a week since he has had any friendly contact. He knows _why _his bandmates aren’t here. That fight was lost the second they gave him the diagnosis, but he misses them. He wants them here. _Wants_ Freddie to run his hand through his hair and John’s warm hand on his back and Roger’s voice cooing softly in his ear.

They won’t do that for him once he loses his arm. Brian sees how people get started at, how they would think that he can’t do anything alone. He won’t be able to play guitar or even go back to school because it’s his right hand. He is _right-handed. _

Sure, he could learn to write left-handed.

Brian falls asleep. The tears blending in with the sweat.

* * *

The label wants them to start preparing for the next album. Freddie wants to fight them on it, but Queen is still dependent on the label. They’ve had good songs, but none that give them any bargaining power. He demanded that they don’t have any studio dates until Brian is back, the label made him promise that they’ll be able to go straight into recording.

It doesn’t mean he is happy about it. Roger certainly isn’t and John is nervous about it.

“Do you think we’re going to be… cause Brian to not come back?” John mumbles, “what if he _can’t _and the label forces a guitarist on us.”

“Then we walk,” Freddie says easily.

He wants to choke on the words.

“Queen isn’t Queen unless it’s the four of us,” Freddie offers a smile to try and lighten the mood, “and Brian writes a lot of the songs anyway.”

Freddie had meant it as a joke, he is good at writing. Fantastic, but something just happens when he has Brian rewriting and editing everything. Their creative process feeds off each other.

Flick of the Wrist had been easy to write, but now there’s nothing else coming to mind. Snatches of melodies and lyrics float around his head for him to write down, all different songs. The problem he finds is he knows there is a hit song hidden - _She keeps her Moet et Chandon _something something something. Freddie hums the melody, but he can’t think of the rest of the words.

They’re there. He just can’t tease them out. Roger is a brilliant musician, but his songwriting process is slapping a song together and then twisting it until it’s something passable, their styles clash. Freddie knows he can go to John, his style mirrors Brian despite not having a song to his name yet, but he has seen him hunched over countless sheets of scratch paper. It wouldn’t be fair to drag him away from that.

So, Freddie starts a game. He writes out a line and then asks himself if Brian would like it. The game doesn’t last long because he doesn’t have his counterpoint, he can imagine everything that Brian would say, which is exactly why it doesn’t work. Each song they write together invokes a different facet of Brian’s talent.

It hurts to think about Brian too. Not that he is ill, that does worry Freddie but they have every assurance that Brian is going to be alright, but the fact that Freddie is starting to be able to move around without Brian in their tight-knit group. They don’t have to squeeze into one room, bumping and jostling each other for space.

A week and they’ve already expanded. Nothing so dramatic as forgetting the sound of Brian’s voice (as Roger panicked he did), Freddie has every pitch and waver memorized from when he sings, and it’s not the voice he is worried about losing. There is no guitar like the Red Special, and no guitarist can play her like Brian. That’s the sound he is worried about. He knows each of his songs are written with her in mind, a thrill to hear what she is going to sing when Brian strums her.

Freddie built it into his songs for Queen.

He stares at the ceiling. His mind won’t shut off tonight. Half filled with Brian half picking out words to use in his song. There are a few lingering glow-in-the-dark stars Brian had placed, most had fallen off, to be picked up whenever someone wanders in to grab something in their surplus closet. Brian is probably staring at a blank ceiling, thinking far too much.

Freddie shakes his head, he won’t get any sleep dwelling on things he cannot change (how he wishes he could). When he rolls over, he is greeted with a tiny plush, a gift from John to Brian. He smiles because John had given the hedgehog in apology with an _I know they’re your favorite, Bri_. Roger had spent hours declaring that it was a fox, _Brian had told it himself. _Personally, Freddie thought it would have been a badger, but it’s best to not let the world know he could be wrong.

He pulls it to his chest, stroking the smooth fur on its back. His voice cuts through the silence as he hums _She keeps her Moet et Chandon _something something _In her pretty cabinet_.

Freddie sits up and stares at the bookcase. Gold lettering glimmers in the street light _History of the French Revolution. _He practically falls out of bed attempting to get to one of Brian’s unused songbooks, he scribbles the first two lines.

_She keeps her Moet et Chandon / In her Pretty cabinet / “Let them eat cake,” she says. _

This time he scratches out the notes along the bars. The song flows out of him. Inkblots the page as he hesitates over words and notes but it doesn’t stop coming to him. Dawn creeps into the room, illuminating Freddie’s work. He blinks trying to wet his eyes. It’s good. This song of his.

When he hears the bedroom door open he gathers the hedgehog and the notebook and slides in front of John.

“Freddie? Did you sleep?”

“No! I have a song.”

John grimaces, “love, you need sleep.”

“Yes, yes,” Freddie waves his hand, “where’s Rog?”

“Where do you think?” John mumbles.

Freddie frowns. He tugs John towards the front room. Roger’s hand dangles over the edge of the couch. The TV is on. He leans over, their drummer is asleep, his brown pinched together and snoring lightly. Dark circles highlight the paleness of Roger’s cheeks. A thick hoodie climbs up his stomach, one that Freddie knows is Brian and knows contributed to Roger’s sleepless night.

Blue eyes flutter open. He squints and rubs his eyes, “wha?”

“I have a song.”

“A song?” Roger blinks.

Freddie waltzes to their piano, which is wedged awkwardly in the corner. He moves a stack of star maps to the side and pushes a half-written song to the side. Roger is sitting up but slowly sliding into John. Freddie takes a second to double-check that the key is the one he wants to use.

“Ready?” He asks softly.

John bumps Roger awake. Freddie flicks his fingers out and presses them delicately. He plays through the song first without lyrics and once he captures their attention, he takes it from the top and begins to sing. John smiles encouragingly. Roger is considerably more awake, the hoodie is pulled up to his nose, but his eyes are shifting across the table.

He is looking for a rhythm.

Freddie smiles and plays it again. Brian will love this.

* * *

Brian’s left-hand moves in a soft plucking motion. The nurse is running a cold cloth over his head and face. His fever had broken once the medication took root. It was a breath of relief, but over the next two days, the infection in his arm that they were monitoring spilled into his blood and the fever spiked again.

He keeps having dreams about the world drowning. Nightmares aren’t unfamiliar and it’s not the first time he has been inspired by them. It’s just the first time he has no way to write it out.

_OOooh people can you hear me? _The chords are easy to imagine. His brain has played that one line repeatedly.

Brian knows his nurse has dismissed it as fever-brain. It’s stuck in his head and he can’t craft the song. This song would be written in two minutes if he had the Red Special or even Freddie scribbling down his ideas.

_OOooh people can you hear me?_

He groans and closes his eyes. His body is so tired, but he can’t sleep because he can’t get this part of the song out of his head. It’s not crafted or tangible and he doesn’t want to lose it, but he can’t keep thinking about it. Amputation has been floated around ever since he has been here. Brian hasn’t had it explained to him when he can focus and grasp the medical terminology.

His mother assures him that he will be fine.

Brian knows she is lying to him. She bites her lips and adverts her eyes every time he asks when he can go home, or even if she can get Freddie, John, and Brian to get into the hospital. They tried, but the hospital isn’t budging.

_OOooh people can you hear me?_

He wants to scream.

He wants his guitar.

He wants to go home.

He wants Roger and John and Freddie.

He _wants._

_OOooh people can you hear me?_

* * *

John fills up the third cup of tea before setting it onto the tray next to the three plates. Freddie and Roger giggle quietly on the couch. Their latest shopping spree has taken over the living room. It’s sorted by colors but the clothes are balled up and thrown so that the piles are less separated and more guidelines. He tilts his head for a moment before he realizes that it’s just giggling.

Right. Brian would be grumbling about their sorting method. John swallows and looks back to the tray. His hands shake, causes the saucers and cups to clatter. Roger looks up with a feather boa and sunglasses skewed on his face, he is grinning.

“What’d you think? Make Elton John jealous?”

“Or make him never want to talk to us.”

John sets the tray down, kicking a red… something to the other assorted reds before sitting on the ground next to them. Freddie and Roger grab their cups and start drinking. Roger reaches down and drops a hat onto Freddie’s head. The feathers stick up and some are bent.

“How do I look?”

“Like a pigeon died on your head,” John says.

Freddie grabs his chest and tilts into the couch. This is the part where Freddie should turn to Brian and complain about John’s meanness. John looks to the end of the coffee table. An astronomy book has been covered up by Roger’s car magazines. He bites his lip.

Does he bring this up?

Then he shakes his head. It’s been so long since the shadow of what if fell over their house, that they haven’t had a day to be themselves since touching down nearly four weeks ago.

Had it been so long?

John looks around the living room. Papers and books and empty soda bottles litter every flat surface. There are clogs shoved in the corner and a pair of underwear over the back of the chair. This is their living room, every minor detail is jumping out at him. Tiles hide by the TV stand from their last scrabble game, right before the tour. One of their poster's corners is hanging from the wall.

Their living room is cluttered. John can’t remember the last time it had been this disorganized. Why hadn’t he noticed before now?

He stands and moves towards the back entrance. Freddie calls after him, but he needs to get away from the rushing in his head. John nearly trips over the mat, the corner sticking up in the doorway. Outside the weather is nice with a promise of rain. A stray cat flicks its tail awoken from his nap.

He leaps off when John moves towards the banister. His are knuckles white as his palms ache with pinprick splinters. John watches the wind pick up fallen leaves. They spin.

Yesterday? What had he served yesterday? Three teas. Roger’s preferred mixture and Freddie’s favorite band. His is made the way he likes it. The day before that it was the same.

When had he started that habit?

John leans forward, pressing his head against the wood and straightening out his back. The paper had gone in the bin after he read it because Roger had already yelled about the politics of the day and Freddie doesn’t care for it.

“Deaky?” Freddie asks quietly.

“Have we heard about Brian today?”

Freddie shakes his head, “no. Ruth is meant to call us tomorrow. Why?”

He rubs his hands down his face, “nothing. How many cups of tea did you make for breakfast?”

“Three.”

John flexes his fingers on his scalp letting out a sharp whine.

Freddie moves forward and John falls into the embrace. His arms cradle Freddie’s waist weakly. John turns away from Freddie’s neck as they sway slowly. Eventually, his breathing settles into the rhythm they’re moving in, the swaying matching a ¾ count. Freddie’s hand moves up and down his back quicker.

He clears his throat after a few minutes of gentle swaying, “I want Brian.”

Freddie’s chest tenses.

“I don’t want to forget how to live with him.”

“Shh. Love you won’t.”

“But I have!” John pulls away.

He leans into Freddie’s hand, “Brian will come back and everything will be fine.”

“And we have to relearn everything again?”

“Then that’s what we do.”

John jumps at Roger’s voice.

“If we’ve learned how to live without him, then I’ll happily spend every moment learning it again,” Roger bites his lip, “because that means he’ll have come home.”

He blinks. Roger’s face crumples for a moment, for the first time that John has seen before it gets rebuilt carefully. Roger pushes from the doorframe and strides towards them, his arms wrapped tightly around his body. Freddie pulls him closer and John closes the circle. When he closes his eyes, he thinks about another set of arms weaving their way through the embrace.

They’ve just adjusted. To make it hurt less. They haven’t forgotten. John swears they haven’t.

He should listen to their copy of the Queen album, so he can hear Brian’s voice again. John can hear the tone but he doesn’t remember how it formed around words. Brian is coming home, it’s that simple.

Convincing himself is harder than he thought.

* * *

Brian decides he is going to retire from Queen on day 35 of being in the hospital. The infection is cleared, and he still has both arms but he doesn’t feel like the guitarist of Queen anymore. He can barely stand for the four minutes it takes him to go to the bathroom, much less stand for six hours during a studio session or even the two hours for a show.

Staying _awake _for two hours is a major victory in his book.

Martha, his favorite nurse, assures him that he will be right as rain once he is outside these halls. It’s the hospital that slows healing, going home is always better. Brian would believe it if he still thought he had a home to go back to. They probably figured out how much better they work without him arguing about their songs or forcing them to look after him the days it takes everything in him just to wake up.

John can play the guitar on recordings and they just need to pay a guitarist to fill in his spot for concerts. It would hurt, but he would let John have the Red Special if he kept her on the Queen albums. Brian would hate silencing her, but he knows he couldn’t bear to bring her into another band with no promise of being heard.

He read somewhere once where it takes less time to lose a habit than to form it. Brian doesn’t wake up expecting to be embraced or kissed anymore; waking up and smelling hospital brand tea and oatmeal is. At night his lullaby is the quiet hiss of machines and the rustling blankets instead of triplet breathing or half thought of melodies.

They aren’t going to want him.

Beyond being practically useless for recording when their contract demands it of them, he has physically changed too. His cheeks are sunken and his joint bonier for the few weeks where they couldn’t feed him anything solid because he would be sick. His hair is dry and brittle from generic shampoo and sweat. The curls hand limply, and it always feels greasy.

Brian hasn’t looked in a mirror hard enough to see how pale he has gotten, but the veins in his wrist are stark against his skin.

Next to his song, which he managed to write out, horribly with his left hand during the days when he thought that he could go back, he thinks of what he’ll tell them. Brian promises himself a week before he delivers the news. For all he knows that they aren’t going to use him on the album and have solidified their relationship around the trio of them, he does know that they _care _about him.

Roger wouldn’t have lost as much sleep as him in the week after he told his parents he was dropping out of university to pursue the band full time if he didn’t _care._

Freddie wouldn’t trust him with every dark and deep thought he fathoms at night when the stars are starting to be covered by sunlight if he didn’t _care._

John wouldn’t have spent so long attempting to perfect a scrapyard amp for his guitar when he had all of his coursework to attend to if he didn’t _care. _

They care, but they won’t be _in_ love with him.

Brian listens to the quiet hissing of the machines and ignores the itchy feeling of tears.

* * *

The day Brian is scheduled to be released, he dresses in the nicest but most comfortable clothes his mom had brought him. She keeps her lips pursed as he finishes zipping up the hoodie. His clothes practically drown him, highlighting just how much weight he has lost.

“Are you certain you don’t want to stay with your father and me?”

Brian shakes his head, “I’m fine. The guys have my back.”

His mother presses her lips together then, “but they don’t quite have the woman’s touch for healing.”

He would bristle at that comment if it wouldn’t exhaust him. He doesn’t want a wife when he has Queen.

“Roger studied biology. He’ll have a grasp on it, yeah?”

Brian doesn’t mention that Roger spent the same amount of time on his biology homework as trolling for a good party or fuck (and in those days it usually ended up with Brian drunk and under him, really they should have had a clue long before Freddie knocked their heads together). John will be good for it, he will know Brian isn’t feeling right before Brian does (and this time he will listen because when he didn’t he nearly died). Freddie will be ecstatic to have someone to dote on that can’t gripe at him to get up because they have things to do (and Brian is looking forward to that, if he gets that privilege still).

“Well, if you’re certain. They’ll be here at half noon?”

It’s only forty minutes until then, “yes, mum.”

“Okay, sweetie, call us when you get settled or have one of them do it, and our offer stands.”

“Thanks, mum. And I will.”

His mom kisses him on the cheek once, his father has already gone to get the car. She smiles at him one more time before waving and walking out of the door. Brian sighs in relief and drops both hands to the railing of the bed. His legs are shaking, this is the longest he has been forced to stand. He swallows and stands tall once he hears the door again.

Martha has a wheelchair, “well, Mr. May, I will say it’ll be a shame to lose that pretty voice of yours.”

He flushes, “I’m certain you’re tired of hearing it after 40 days.”

“Never. I might have to pick up that album of yours. You said Queen?”

“That’s her name.”

“I can’t wait to hear this Freddie fella,” Martha helps him sit, “and Roger too. You make them sound like Israfel’s disciples, the way you go on about range and vibratio and notes.”

“Vibrato,” Brian says.

“Right, vibrato.”

Brian pushes the footrests down and leans back. He doesn’t like that he must be wheeled around, but he is grateful that he doesn’t have to walk. There are a few familiar faces, including his doctor.

“Congratulations, Mr. May,” he nods, “do be sure to have someone run to the pharmacy to pick up those pills, I’d hate to see you back.”

“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever been glad to hear that statement,” Brian smiles.

Doctor Edwards laughs, “keep that sense of humor in rehabilitation.”

He nods back as they pass. Brian’s hands shake in the pockets of his hoodie. After forty days, he is finally going to be able to see his boys again. Hold them. Hug them. Pretend for a moment that they still love him. Martha leaves him in the care of the discharge nurse who parks him next to the door since h is meant to be picked up in fifteen minutes.

He practices his speech of reunion. Making sure that it’s as encompassing as possible without singling one of them out first. Brian loses the thought when he looks up and sees that not only has it been fifteen minutes but a full three-quarters of an hour.

They promised his mother that they’d be coming to get him. He inhales and shoves the tears away. There are plenty of reasons that they might not be on time. It doesn’t have to be because they’re telling him through actions rather than words that he is out of both the band and their lives.

The clock strikes an hour and he sees a familiarly hideous van jerk to a stop in front of the doors. Brian’s eyes are glued to the sliding door as Roger stumbles out.

John must be driving then.

For all of Roger’s haste, it’s Freddie that reaches him first. Brian is barely able to push himself from the wheelchair before the singer is clinging to him. He melts at the warm body. For a month all he has dreamt about was this moment (outside of his nightmares). The brush of lips on his neck feels accidental.

Freddie smiles at him and Brian has one piece of his heart slotted back in place.

“Try not to do that again, hm? A month without you is ridiculously dreadful,” Freddie squeezes his shoulder once.

There are too many eyes on them.

“I have so many songs for you to look at and fill in.”

Brian stares. Roger knocks him back with the force he leaps into him. It hurts his stomach where he has the last few stitches from when his vomiting ripped them open again. He manages to turn the breath of pain into a breathy laugh.

“Hello, Rog.”

His shirt is suspiciously damp.

“Next time you feel ill, tell us. I don’t care if it’s a sniffle or a stubbed toe,” Roger huffs, “clearly you can’t tell when you need help.”

Roger buries his nose into Brian’s collar bone. His grip bruising and this time he does whimper, the hand is right under his bandage. As if he had been burned, Roger jumps away from him. His eyes land on his arm.

“Bri?”

“S’just tender, s’all,” Brian curses his body.

He should be excited, not ready to fall asleep. There’s a quick squeeze on his wrist, _thank you. _Brian smiles at Roger.

John finally gets to them. He spins his fingers around each other and is giving each of them a moment. Brian takes a step forward, Roger and Freddie both guiding him with their hands.

This time it’s Brian that initiates the hug. John returns it much stronger and surer than Brian. There is a ghost of breath against his collarbone.

“You still smell like you.”

He hopes that it is a compliment.

“Of course, Deaks, I’m still me.”

“You’re here,” John breathes.

“Of course I am.”  
Their embrace breaks and Brian watches John’s fingers flex. Brian wants to kiss each knuckle and will away the rigidity in them.

“I know, but this is the first time it’s real.”

John’s gray eyes grow shiny. The bassist presses his palms to his eyes and chuckles.

“God, I know. Ruth said you were healing. But that’s not the same. Not the same as seeing you, upright and not hiding your pain. I thought. We thought – well the last we saw of you was your collapse.”

Brian grimaces. From their third song on Brian has no idea what happened, everything was on autopilot. He barely remembers passing out but does remember waking up in the ambulance and knowing he was going to die. It would have been a relief from the pain, he was feeling and he had embraced it. Despite knowing it was the fever and infections, Brian feels guilty.

He would have left them behind. Brian can’t do that. They’re his everything.

For the first time in a month, he sees now that they would never leave him behind either.

“I’m healing,” Brian says slowly, “it’ll take a while.”

Freddie grabs his hand sending a daring look to the discharge nurse, “and I am grateful we have the time.”

Brian is too, they all have so much to give still.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, leave your thoughts and comments below! Or come talk to me on tumblr!  
Bed time for Sammy!


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